Monday, November 16, 2009


The rotting Buick Le Sabre
cowers in the uncut grass of my Uncle’s backyard.  

My cousin hands over the rifle:  
“I’m tired.” he says.   

Through the scope, I can see beyond the fence 
across the neighboring field to the curtain of the woods 

I imagine a back road Christian cheerleading squad emerging—chanting: 
Go Jesus! Go Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Go Jesus!  

Something clicks behind me, and I can smell my cousin smoking.   
“You’re like your dad,” he says.   

I aim at the rust annexed 82' front plate--
"What do you mean?" I ask

“You’re both think--  

1 comment:

  1. this is really good ben. it reminds me of "snow" from actual air - how your speaker distances himself from his cousin.

    also i think it's interesting that you and mary both use images of fences and woods in your newest poems. must be the milwaukee collective unconscious, i guess!